A divine being
by xxvildexx
Summary: It starts with breathing problems. Then comes the stabbing pain. And then the visit to hospital. Something is definitly not right.
1. Ictus

**A/N: Hey, I'm back! With school finally over, I am trying to write up a new story. It will be several chapters long, and I hope that I can write up chapters quickly so that you won't have to wait to long if you like it. No one has done betaing or britpicking on this one, but if you want to for later chapters... be my guest :) Hope you like it!**

* * *

It had been going on for almost two whole weeks when Sherlock decided he had had enough. He hadn't been able to take a good, normal breath in what felt like forever, and the feeling that someone was continuously strangling him was…well… breath-taking. Sherlock and John had been chasing two criminals together over the past few days, and John had been the one to catch up with the bad guys first both times. Meanwhile John had been holding a firm grip on the criminals, Sherlock had come jogging and out of breath right behind. The worst part, thought Sherlock, was that it was getting harder and harder to breathe each day, and it had now come to a point where it was _really _bothersome. Even though he hated doing so, most of all just wanting to brush it away and wait for it to hopefully stop, he told John.

"John, I can't breathe."

It wasn't supposed to come out that way, and it was surely not supposed to sound like that. He was just planning on telling John nonchalantly that he had some problems getting air down his lungs, and if anything could be done with it. Now that he actually thought about what he had said, it wasn't far from the truth. It had come to a point where air _wasn't _coming down his lungs anymore.

"Wha-"

John looked quizzically at his friend, but it quickly turned into a deep frown as the lanky detective almost fell down on the sofa next to him. He could see his friend turning into a slight tinge of blue, and that his chest was almost convulsing in an attempt to get some air. The doctor gripped Sherlock's shoulders firmly and forced him into an upright position. The two arms holding him up quickly became like a stress-ball, as Sherlock clenched all he could and made John grimace. He was starting to panic, that much was obvious, and panicking was the worst thing to do when one couldn't breathe. The same second he was about to open his mouth to tell him to calm down, Sherlock got his breath back, just as sudden as it felt like it had all happened. It did, indeed, seem like someone had just had a hold of his friend's throat and suddenly decided to let go. The two of them kept sitting beside each other on the sofa for a while, both pair of eyes searching frantically for answers in the other. It was Sherlock who broke the contact first, as he rose with a huff of frustration and strode over to the door where he put on his coat and scarf. John was still a bit baffled from what had just happened, because _what had just happened_?

"Where are you going?"

He snapped out of it and managed to stop Sherlock before he fled down the stairs and out of the flat. Only some muttering about a case was what John got as an explanation before the tall man was suddenly gone, and he was left in utter confusion and bewilderment. What on earth was going on?

It didn't take long before he started to analyze and think back to the last few days and weeks, had Sherlock behaved any differently? John couldn't think of anything, and it made him irritated and unsettled as hell. Why did it happen so sudden, and why did it go away so sudden? Now it didn't feel like such a good idea that Sherlock was running around on his own in London's dark alleys, maybe even more so with the sharp autumn air that had been lately. It was a possibility there was something wrong with Sherlock's lungs, and a night out in the cold, on the run after or from something, would do him no good then. John decided to get out after him.

* * *

Sherlock had actually tried to pursuit a criminal, having found out the address as to where he was hiding earlier, but not really cared too much about the case. Now seemed like a perfect time for the distraction. However, he had never come further than right around the corner of Baker Street before the newfound throbbing in his head became too much. Annoyed and angry at himself for giving in, he strode back to the flat, slammed the door after him and thumped up the stairs. He got slightly confused for a second, when he couldn't find John anywhere; he hadn't been out that long? Either way, he decided it was nothing to care about. Not a minute later he found himself flopping down on the sofa, rather than going to his bed or searching the folders he had from Lestrade to help with a cold case. Slowly, he fell asleep, even though he never meant to, to a steadily increasing headache and a stupidly high wish about wanting his doctor there with him.

And it was to just that wish he awoke again too. Immense pain shot through the whole of his now curled up body, all the way from his head down to his toes. The great detective took his head in his hands, and clung to his hair as if it would save him. An undignified sort of squeak and groan left his lips and was picked up on by a certain John Watson. It was just as he had hung his jacket on one of the pegs in the hallway that he noticed the shifting on the sofa, and then came the strangled sound. John's brows furrowed as he moved further into the apartment and took a closer look at his friend. He was half relieved to finally find him, but also wondering what could make him give away such a sound. Under further inspection, John saw that his hands were clamped over his temples, and his nails were digging into his scalp. Not knowing what was going on was starting to beat the patience out of John, and he once again asked the question he had asked himself so many times that evening; what was happening? John tried to pry Sherlock's hands away, but to no avail, he just kept moaning and digging his nails almost further into his head. Something was very off, and extremely _a bit not good. _All he wanted was to get Sherlock out of his seemingly catatonic state, and so he did what he thought was best.

"It's just John. You need to calm down and listen to me." He said as calmly and kindly he could.

The sound of his voice slowly penetrated its way into the detective's ears, like gospel over the deafening white noise from his headache and heavy breathing. Sherlock remained silent however; the headache was too much, and it made a haze it was impossible to speak or even think through. The only thing he could do was close his eyes tightly and try to lock it all out. John frowned even more and put a hand to Sherlock's head, not really knowing what else to do. Nothing seemed or felt different, but the man on the sofa was making a big deal out of nothing then. The moaning increased significantly when John took his hand away again, as if he was trying to hold back tears, which might as well could've been the case.

"My head…" He managed to mutter under his gasping breath, as he kicked out at the pillows at the bottom of the sofa and dragged at his own hair.

"I know, just try and calm down. Think of something else, maybe hold onto something else than your head? It might just get worse of it." John said sadly, reaching out his hand to show Sherlock he was there.

"Ju- just… don't-"

Sherlock didn't manage to finish talking before he a let out a low, painful groan and then fell silent. He kept staring forlorn at the ceiling, not knowing what to say or do. At the same time, John watched him with a concerned expression seeking for answers, just as last time. Was there something neurologically wrong? Once again, Sherlock rose up with an air of frustration and anger around him, rushing into the bathroom and later on to his bedroom. John remained in the same position by the sofa, his mind working and clogging around all his questions, until he snapped out of it and saw the clock had just passed 2AM.

* * *

It happened several times in the days after that, and they got absolutely no sort of warning on when or how it would transpire. Sherlock would be in a sudden immense pain, trying his hardest at ignoring it at continue what he was doing, and just as suddenly it was gone again. The worst was probably that it happened several times a day. At worst, John had lost count. It had happened in the most inconvenient of times; once at a crime scene, in a cab, several times while he was drinking or having something he didn't want to spill in his hands, but mostly it had woke him up from his sleep. The pain would be in different places all the time, although his head seemed to be a popular place for it to wreak havoc. Every time John asked (more like demanded), he described it as a piercing or stabbing one. Both John and Lestrade had witnessed Sherlock trying to deal with it as best without anyone being supposed to notice, but the change of the tall detective's posture, breathing and the small noises he made were all too obvious. There was nothing John had wanted more than to be there and calm his flatmate down, but he had never been allowed to, each time being forced away. He had been so focused on finishing the big, on-going case that he wouldn't let anything take his focus away from it. "_'It's just transport." _Sherlock had been angry after the pain attacks, maybe a little bit ashamed and very frustrated. They were also starting to irritate John and leave him pondering for hours and days afterward, until it was the only thing on his mind. The thought of seeing a doctor had passed his mind more than he liked, but he never seemed to gather his wits enough to tell Sherlock. Not when he was in a constant black mood, it might as well be the death of him then. The four or five days after the first incident occurred to John as a haze, just as much as it did for Sherlock. After that, it had been silent for at least three days, or Sherlock had just managed to supress the pain.

The load had lessened somewhat from John's shoulders, but he was still keeping a sharp eye on his flatmate. The question about what had caused the sudden pains still lingered, but it seemed like Sherlock had forgotten about it long ago. Did it really not bother him at all? At least John thought he would find it a little bit interesting now that it was all over. Classic Sherlock; taking advantage of everything to experiment. There had to be something different this time, John thought. He took a moment to just watch the detective sitting at the round table by the wall in the kitchen, fidgeting with his instruments and some blood samples in a couple of petri-dishes. He had seemed a bit on the edge all day, and as if to prove the other man's thoughts, Sherlock chose that moment to whip around and fix him with a cold, yet flaming stare.

"_What?_" he literally snarled at John.

"Nothing… you just seem a little twitchy today is all." John turned around to set his now empty cup in the sink, trying to feign nonchalance. "Sure you're feeling fine?" The question came out as a mumbling sentence of careful concern.

"Yes! And anyway, it is none of your business, go be worried about yourself or-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, he'd never done that before, not like that.

John turned back around to the sound of Sherlock's chair toppling over together with the tall man. In the process, he managed to drag with him the heavy microscope so that it landed on his chest. Several of the petri-dishes followed suit, and it looked like a real mess of both shattered glass and detective surrounded with blood. If John hadn't managed to turn around in time to see the petri-dishes smash to the ground, he would've probably reacted in a very different way. He should've been more alarmed, he knew that, but all he could feel was exasperation and frustration at the fact that he didn't know what to do.

Sherlock managed to push away the apparatus from his chest himself, but stopped in his movement when he tried to sit up. He sucked in a sharp breath and let it out shakily before he lowered himself slowly to the floor again. Before he could recline fully, John's strong arms grasped both of his biceps and made him sit up again. It earned him a tired scowl.

"Not here. It'll only hurt you further." He said, giving the shards a look as way of explanation. That wiped away Sherlock's expression. "Does your chest hurt? Can you get up?"

Sherlock looked down at his lap, seemingly shameful and a little bit uneasy, before he burst out into full on I-am-smarter-than-you mode.

"No, I am just sitting on the floor because I like it here. _Of course _I can't get up. Please, do use that thick, clogging mind of yours for what it's worth, you are giving me a headache." He almost screamed that second sentence into John's ear, filling it with something like abhorrence over the whole situation.

"First of all; you are sitting on the floor because _I_ am keeping you upright. Second; that wasn't very nice, be careful about who you are pushing away Sherlock." Yet another scowl was shot vehemently to John for that lecture. For a moment, he knew there was something like regret in the otherwise calculating eyes of the detective, and that was good enough for his friend.

One of Sherlock's hands found its way to John's chest, and it used the sturdy body underneath to push the owner of it up on his feet. It seemed as if the whole ordeal was at least five times harder than it should be, and that made a warning pop up in the back of Dr Watson's head. John the friend, on the other hand, was insulted by being used as a bloody crutch for Sherlock to get up on his feet again. He saw him standing by the table again, slightly hunched and gripping the edge of it. Just as concern was about to set in to the "thick mind" in the room for the umpteenth time that week, he saw him straightening up and flatten out his now crumpled shirt. A snort made its way out of John as he rose to his feet. That man was utterly impossible and absolutely intolerable, but still, the thought of moving out had not crossed his thoughts once, yet…

"God damn it Sherlock, can you please tell me what is going on? You've been behaving like a real… bloody… sod all day. I don't know what to do. I can't imagine what it's like, or maybe I can, actually, but would you at least_ try_ to let me-"

Sherlock crumpled to the ground again, holding one hand to his ribs and trying to mitigate the impact of the fall with the other one. It did more harm than good, and it made him fall to his side when he hit the floor. Not one second later, John had an honest to God heart attack as the cold shrill of Sherlock's scream almost echoed inside the flat.

* * *

"Yes, I am a doctor, but that's not-" John tried to wait patiently for the person at the other end of the line to finish, Sherlock could see that, but he was definitely having a hard time. "I. do not. know! That's just the thing! He has been screaming and moaning like this for almost an hour now, please just send an ambulance here. Quick." It was the fifth or sixth, no… maybe seventh, time his good doctor had said that sentence now. "Oh… oh no… God, I have to… just… make them hurry."

Sherlock saw John putting down his Nokia and hurry back to the sofa again. For some reason he was telling him to calm down and don't think, or think of something else, or maybe try to say something. He had said that a lot, but why should he stop thinking about John and what he said, was that not what he wanted? No, _focus Sherlock! _That isn't what he means. And as if it was meant as a reminder from a higher deity; that was the exact moment he came back to himself again. What felt like a very, _very _real stabbing took place in the right side of his back. He arched against the soft surface he laid on, making no attempt at all to stop the cry escaping deep down from his throat. He felt John's hands in his hair at once, speaking the same mantra he had done all that night. Sherlock couldn't hear the words anymore, just feel John's presence and catch some of his calming tones under his own hysteric noises. He didn't know if he liked it or not, the touch from his friend that was, because it was without doubt that he _did not_ like the pain. He almost thought he was going to cry, how had it come to this? His bane of thoughts got stopped as he could feel another stab, screwing itself deep down to what felt like both his spine and bone marrow. All he could do not to lose it completely was gape, and his impulse sent both hands scrabbling for something to hold so tight it would break. A sort of keening noise made its way into John's ears, together with a choked sob. John thought his pained friend was about to succumb to darkness, just when the door flew open.

* * *

**Probably the worst cliffhanger ever... R/R to see a smile upon my face ;D**


	2. Iratus

_**A/N: Phew! *dries sweat from forehead* That took too long, sorry about that, I realised there exist a life outside this site too (just barely). Anyways, chapter two!**_

* * *

Nothing seemed to get better, no matter what drug or how much of it was injected into Sherlock's system. He didn't even calm down just a tiny bit, the pain appeared to be just as bad as it had been. He hated seeing Sherlock like that. He had, of course, seen the cocky, arrogant, selfish, unable-to-show-sentiment… man in pain or degraded before, but it was just as unsettling and wrong each time.

"Give him more. You have got to give him more." All of John's medical training was long forgotten in the heat of his friend being in pain. He knew it could be dangerous, but _it wasn't helping!_

"We have already given him more than he should have. You said he'd been having breathing problems, abdominal pains, head pains… Come on, if you're a doctor, you know what drugs can do when we haven't diagnosed the patient yet!" The young doctor sitting on the other side of the ambulance had an exasperated look plastered to his face, and John had to give in and acknowledge the facts.

John had to take several deep breaths to keep calm and try to make his own mind see reason. There was an emotional balance that should be kept, and the more distressed Sherlock became, the more composed John had to become. The whole situation was so surreal, but it was all made so _very _true as the doors of the ambulance opened and fresh air hit those inside of it. Next up was white walls and fluorescent lights rushing past tired eyes, and then an ICU room. Once inside, John got pushed out again by frantic doctors, trying to decide what to do. It wasn't fair, he thought. He was a doctor too, and it was his friend, and it was he who had been with him in the past few days when it all started. No, Captain John Watson would not be pushed outside of this. With defiance rushing through his body, he pushed the door open again. What he got to see sent him stopping dead in his tracks. Sherlock had finally stilled, but it didn't give John the satisfaction it should have, because his friend lay slumped and lifeless against the stretcher. His legs felt like jelly and his head had actually become cloggy and thick, that was before he saw the syringe in one of the doctors' hand. His heart rate went from rocketing sky high to sliding comfortably back down to the ground again. There was no need for him to be in there if they had sedated him, he could go back out and get some coffee at least, before he woke up and god knew what would happen. With that on his mind, John slowly backed out again and went to look for a wending machine.

* * *

Sherlock was confused when he woke up. He didn't recognize the room he was in, how he got there, or why he was there at all. It was definitely a hospital, but he couldn't deduce more than that, and it made him even more confused and irritated on top of it all. His body felt heavy and sluggish, not responding anywhere near as quickly as he wanted it to. It was as if everything was too tiresome and arduous to accomplish at the moment. Why did he feel like that? What had happened? Who had done this to him? Doctors? Where was John then? _John! _Where was John? Had something happened to him too? It angered him to no end that he could not get the pieces to fit together, or rather that he could not find the pieces at all. They were well hidden in each and every unreachable corner of his great mind palace. Sherlock let out a small but dramatic sigh, he had to get out of wherever he was and find out what was happening. He managed to sit up and take hold of the edge of the bed to support himself as he flung his legs over it and slid carefully down to the floor. A stinging tug in his hand made him stop abruptly and lean back against the bed. He took the IV line in his hand, inspecting it with a curious glance and then yanking it out. At that exact moment, the door to his room opened and he stopped rubbing the little laceration he had made, looking up at the man in front of him.

"Lie back down, please." The hand on his chest, pushing him back into the bed, felt intruding, and Sherlock decided he didn't like it.

The dark, slim hand was swatted away by a petulant and cautious detective. He climbed over the bed and jumped down on the other side of it, wobbling slightly when his feet hit the floor. Now he _had _ripped out the IV line, and it burned, but it hardly mattered as much as the dizzy spell he suddenly had. He tried to support himself by using the wall, just as the nurse rounded the bed and came towards him once more. It was too much, and Sherlock fell to the floor and pressed himself up against the wall.

"John. I need John." he hissed at the man who took a step backwards.

"After I've got you back into bed, alright?" he looked momentarily both confused and worried, but quickly stretched his hand out for Sherlock to take.

"I need John. Where is John?" if John could come in that door or the nurse could go fetch him, that would be just perfect, but nothing happened, the nurse seemed frozen in his posture. "Get John." Sherlock spat with his most venomous voice.

"O-okay, just… don't move."

Sherlock didn't feel like moving anyway, but it was because of that, _and that only_, that he sat in the exact same position when the nurse came back in with John in the lead. The disoriented, lanky man on the floor stole a quick glance at his blogger, sighing in relief when he found him unharmed.

"Come on up Sherlock, don't make such a scene." John held his hand out for Sherlock to grab. For a moment it was tempting, but he thought better of it and gathered all the strength he could muster to push himself off the floor.

"What is going on?" Sherlock demanded as soon as he was on his feet.

"Get back into your bed, let the nurse here insert the IV again, and then we can talk about what is happening." John crossed his arms, making him seem ten times more resolute and dangerous.

Sherlock shambled over to the bed, petulant as ever and not-so-furtively showing he wasn't going to be easy on the people around him. He wasn't tired, didn't feel off, didn't feel sick or like he had to lie down. He was just disoriented and wanted to know what was going on. No IV was needed, not even hospital, he just wanted home. John just had to tell him what all of it was, and Sherlock just had to play with it, then he could manipulate his way out of there. He would get out, if it meant he had to sneak out or trick people.

"Okay, you have had one hell of a week Sherlock… No wonder you can't remember anything of it, knocked you right out that sedative."

"What? _Sedative?" _ Sherlock's eyes grew as he stared at John.

"You were in so much pain, Sherlock, they didn't have any choice. Nothing worked. And now we have to find out what is wrong with you." There was nothing to like with the pitying and sad tone to John's voice. Sherlock felt fine, although a bit shocked and maybe even more confused.

"There is nothing wrong with me, I feel fine. I just want to get back to Baker Street." Sherlock put on a pleading face, but John didn't buy it.

"You are up for a bone marrow biopsy as soon as you're lucid enough, and the doctors are ready. They will also take some blood samples and possibly sign you up for MRI. Something weird is going on in there Sherlock, and we have to find out. Sorry, you can't go home just yet." John fought an urge to take his friend's hand and comfort him, although he probably needed no such thing.

"They'll be ready for you in ten minutes. Someone will come in to take you to the biopsy." The male nurse who had been in there with them the whole time, smiled something like a reassuring smile to John before he left.

John smiled back and thought _"I don't need any reassurance, you twat.", _but shook it off and tried to focus on Sherlock. He wondered what was going on in that great mind just that moment. Did he even care, or did he just want to go home? What if he tossed and turned on all the possibilities, scaring himself into panic? His composed and careless expression told John otherwise, but he had learned it was just a façade. There was probably an inner turmoil going on in Sherlock's head, just as it was in his own. He was going to stay for the tests, they could be both tiring and exhausting, and who knew when the next time a pain wave would make its appearance? Sherlock would definitely become a pain in the arse for the doctors and nurses. He could at least try and keep the situation somewhat under a normal, social condition until it was inevitable that Sherlock would make someone cry. Until then, he had but one thing to do; keep himself and his own feelings at bay.

John didn't realize they had both been sitting in their own thoughts for ten minutes until a doctor, or more precisely the one in charge of Sherlock's case, came in and announced that they were ready for the biopsy. A female nurse, a rather good-looking one, John noted, followed the doctor inside and started to roll Sherlock out of the room. He sat with his arms crossed, and buried himself as far down in the mattress as he came.

"I can walk there myself. There is nothing wrong with me. There is something wrong with you." John just rolled his eyes and shrugged, as to show the two other persons in the room to carry on with what they were doing. "I don't need this!" Sherlock bellowed, more to his flatmate than to anyone else.

"I'll be right here when you come back!" John shouted just before Sherlock disappeared out of sight.

* * *

After a short break from the hospital, to go home to get some food down into his stomach and take a quick shower, John came back to find Sherlock just finished with his fourth, and hopefully last, test. It had been a MRI this time. He had looked just fine after the first test, the biopsy, if not a little bit agitated.

_"You look fine!" _John had exclaimed, noticing himself that he sounded a bit too surprised.

_"Of course I do. I _am _fine. What did you expect to happen in there, me leaving this planet in a sky of pain and tears?"_

"No… did you expect that?"

He had said it under a laugh, but quickly stopped when Sherlock looked away from him and didn't answer. It was probably for the best that he kept to himself that he had heard him all the way down the hall. _"You're over the worst part of these tests now though, it isn't even certain that you have to take more of them!" _Sherlock had just huffed at his friend's attempt at lightening the mood, and thus they left the conversation there.

He had looked fine then, not in any sort of pain or conflict with his inner self. After a couple more tests, John couldn't say the same. Sherlock looked like he had had quite enough, both emotionally and physically. Pale was an understatement if one should describe his pallor, and agitated was no longer a good enough definition of his mood. Once again, the detective seemed twitchy and uncomfortable in his own skin. Maybe he should have never left, it could have been hours ago that Sherlock had started to look like… well... shit. What came to John's mind at once, was that he was on the verge of a new pain attack.

"Hey, how are you doing?" _that was a tad too soft, Watson!, _a voice in his head said, but he whisked it away.

"I am sick and tired of this hospital, and the people in it, and all the tests, and needles, and prodding, and…" It seemed as if by saying it out loud, Sherlock finally realised how much it was all true. "I am going home."

"No, wait- what? You can't just- Sherlock!" John started to take action as the man in the hospital bed sat up.

"I am going home." He said once more, with a notch more anger in his voice. "If the case of being brain dead isn't contagious, thus my memory not having failed me completely while being in this hospital, then I believe there is a very important project of mine splayed out on the kitchen floor?" Sherlock jumped down from the bed to put a period to his sentence."And that can absolutely wait. Mrs. Hudson isn't home… do you know why by the way? And no one is going to enter that flat before we come home. I cleaned it up when I was there anyway, so there is nothing to worry about. Now get back into that bed!" A firm grip was taken around Sherlock's upper arm as he was starting to move about.

"No, _you don't understand._" He hissed and wrenched out of the strong man's grip. "I was working with _the case_, and I was onto something. There might be a relation between it and _this._"

"Sorry, what?"

"John, please do listen when I speak. The case and… and… thi-" Sherlock staggered backwards and took a grip of the mattress at his side.

John cursed under his breath as he grabbed hold of Sherlock, and took advantage of the moment to lead him back into bed. There wasn't much resistance from the detective, he seemed more than okay with laying back down. As soon as he sat down, he started to scrabble for the end of the gown he was wearing, dragging it up to just above his thighs. At first, John didn't understand what he was trying to do, but then he saw him piercing the right one with the most intense glare he had ever witnessed. That must be where it hurt. Next up, Sherlock threw his head back and let out a long, silent, choked moan, carefully rasping out John's name afterwards.

"Sherlock, come on, focus on something else."

Mostly, it's not because the pain itself is welcome, it's because it's different. A different pain takes the focus away from the one that has been plaguing you, makes you concentrate on something else, makes you forget.

The voice of an old friend of John chose that moment to appear. The idea he got from it was so unprofessional that he wished he had never even thought of it. He should really just call for someone, but what good would it do? If the idea would get Sherlock out of his misery for even a few seconds, that was enough for John to consider it. He waited for a few more minutes, ensuring himself that the attack wasn't planning on subsiding. If he was to go by the way Sherlock started to writhe and his continuation of whispering his name, it was only getting worse. Therefore, John took hold of Sherlock's shoulders and thrust him forcefully into the mattress. It made Sherlock hold his breath and open his mouth in a silent scream. John did it one more time, against his better judgement.

"Focus!" He gritted out in desperation.

"Stop." Sherlock groaned as he shied away from John, not wanting him to ever do anything like that ever again.

His chest was hurting now too, together with his thigh. What had happened to his chest? Had he been to x-ray too? Did they say anything? Oh… right… the microscope. What was happening? _Focus! _Was that tears forming in his eyes? Why did John do it again when he specifically asked him to stop? _Come on, I know you can do it! _

"Stop John. Stop!" Sherlock thought it came out as a demanding roar, while it really wasn't more than a pitiful squeak.

He tried to crawl as far away from his _friend _as he could. He was angry, confused and scared by the man, did he not understand that he just made it worse? If he could, he would have punched the man, aiming to break his nose, and not apologise afterwards. _"I always hear that, but it's usually subtext.",_ likewise my dear companion, likewise.

John could see Sherlock's pained expression lightening up a bit, and that a more thoughtful one took its place. _Mission complete. _He felt awful, if Sherlock was a bit delirious, as he had been before under the attacks, what was he thinking of him then? He didn't like the way he literally recoiled away from him. At least he could relish a tiny bit in the fact that it seemed like Sherlock had forgotten about the pain for a few moments.

"John?" the small, nervous voice dragged John out of his bane of thoughts.

He caught himself looking around for the child who said his name, but when his eyes settled on the big-eyed man in the bed, he understood that wasn't the cause.

"Sherlock! I-I'm so, so, so sorry. I just- I tried to-"

"I know… Or, now I do. It worked. It stopped. Forget about it. My chest is a bit sore though, did you see the pictures? From x-ray?" Sherlock nodded to the pictures which were still up after the doctor had been in earlier that day.

He drew in a sharp breath when he got to see them, and then groaned in exasperation. Sherlock had a broken rib. He didn't know the microscope had hit him that hard…because that had to be it? He couldn't think of anything else. Of course it would hurt when he thrust and shook the man like that, what on earth was he thinking of? He should have just called for someone! So much for being a doctor, and a good one too, even an army doctor. John spiralled deeper and deeper into dark thoughts as the pictures before him blurred out.

"You only did what you thought was best John, no one can blame you for it. It worked, and I told you to forget about it, so stop bothering that poor little brain of yours with useless considerations." Sherlock smirked at his friend as he turned around. "I know you want to go home again and do something mundane. You have work tomorrow, and it's getting late, so I am making a guess at sleeping, maybe even another shower where you can toss and turn all those thoughts a couple dozen more times. Oh, and don't forget to call your sister, by the way, need someone to complain about your difficult flatmate about I assume." Once again, he chose one of those cocky expressions, while John stood still, just as dumbfounded as ever at his deductions. "Go, John, I'll do. I'm a grown man, I'm sure I can survive a night at hospital alone." The smile Sherlock gave him was genuine and reassuring.

Why did people think he needed reassuring?

"You are right, as always. Not sure if I'm going to make that call though…"

"You will."

"Shut up." John smiled back at Sherlock. "And by the way, you might want to take back that '_grown man_' part, it's not you I'm concerned about. Just please, don't make anyone cry?"

"I can't really promise you-"

"Sherlock" John threatened.

"_But, _I can probably try, for your sake of not feeling embarrassed. Now go!" Sherlock waved towards the door.

"Thank you, Sherlock. But-" It really wasn't the best time of leaving, right after an attack like that, right after he had hurt Sherlock, and without telling anyone of the staff.

"Leave, John, it's fine, stop quarrelling with yourself now." There was something unnerving about how impatient Sherlock was, something that set of a bell in John's head. The daft bastard probably just wanted some time in peace, and it was with that John went to the door. He hesitated a minute before he locked the door when he heard Sherlock laugh:

"I'm fine!"

He was anything but.


	3. Daedalus

**A/N: Sososososososososo sorry for the god damn delay. And I who told you I was going to be quicker this time... tut-tut. Thank you so much for all favs, follows and reviews, each one of them means a lot, as well as everyone who has checked in on this story! No, off you go and read.**

* * *

John flopped down in his chair with a cup of tea in his hands, sighing exhaustedly. "_Just three seconds, and then I'm off to Sherlock" _he thought to himself. It had been a long day at work, probably because he hadn't thought of anything else but his flatmate. He wondered how many poor girls he had managed to scare away, or if he was even in bed like he should be. And as if by a prayer answered by the devil, came Sherlock, stomping up the stairs, his step slightly uneven. How on earth he even managed, John did not want to know... He _had _to know. So much for a relaxing afternoon with a cup of tea and a well planned schedule for the rest of the day.

"I was going to leave in ten minutes, Sherlock. What on earth are you doing here?"

"They released me?" Sherlock tried, but John did not buy it. "I got hold of a uniform, walked out of my room unseen, went to the lady behind the desk in the hall telling her had been released, that it was probably just one of those weird once-in-a-lifetime happenings..." John stopped listening to Sherlock's explanation right there, because hadn't he told the doctors it had been going on for a while? _He was lying._

"You're lying. I told them. I told them it had happened several times. You _snuck _out?" He asked in disbelief. "God, you truly are intolerable! Did they even give you the results from the tests?"

"Oh calm down John, I am certain none of them will grieve over my disappearance. And please, if you would let me finish?" Sherlock was pierced by the ugliest scowl in history. "Then I can have tell you that I got my file, but I will leave the reading to you." Sherlock turned on his heels and went for the kitchen, and his microscope.

"And why is that, you don't understand it or you just think it's boring?" If it was said a bit too harshly, John did not notice or did not care.

"Correct me if I am wrong-" Sherlock looked down at the equipment on the table and hid his smirk. "But I am convinced that I have already told you; I have more pressing matters at hand. I need to find out what happened with the three victims. There might be a connection between me and them."

"Did you steal the file, or did one of the doctors give it to you as they signed you out?" John asked sarcastically.

"I _borrowed _it." Sherlock corrected. "Now, if you would be so kind..." He gestured towards the map he had thrown into John's lap.

John huffed an exasperated breath, but began looking at the papers nonetheless. In all honesty, he could not wait to see what the doctors had found out. It was a bit intriguing, the curious case of Sherlock's sickness. _Hm... good headline for a blog post. _John could not remember the last time he had been this interested in what diagnose a patient would get, despite all the hurting and that it was his friend and... _I am starting to sound like Sherlock. _Perhaps it was just the fact that Sherlock was the one being diagnosed that made it interesting, but intriguing was a wrong word to use. It sounded like it was funny, or exciting, like he couldn't wait to work out the result just for the fun of it, but it wasn't. The whole situation was downright scary and as far away from funny as one could get.

After reading page after page with nothing (except a few relieved sighs from the doctor), John started to get the feeling that the doctors hadn't found anything after all. Maybe they needed more tests, or maybe they had skipped something, John also thought he saw a young doctor performing some of the tests, he could have done it wrong. It was all just could have or maybe, and the distressed and tired man understood that he was acting foolish. When he at last, after scanning every page with clinical and sharp eyes, read the last few of them and still did not find anything, he had to suppress the urge to throw the damned map across the room. Instead, he put it silently down on the table beside his chair and drew his hands over his face, trying to clear his mind. It was useless. What on earth was going on? He had never seen _or _heard of anything like Sherlock's case. What if it was a bizarre, new disease, or poison? It could be contagious too. John heaved an exasperated and heavy sigh as he realized that _that_ train of thought should be parked safely in its garage again. Slowly, he lifted his tired body out from the chair and went for the bathroom. He passed Sherlock on his way there, and even though he looked concentrated as ever, he seemed tired for once too. John noticed that his right leg was twitching slightly, but decided to let it slip, just this one time. Two minutes later, and John was more than ready for bed. He just had to tell Sherlock that tiny little detail about not finding anything wrong. What if it was mental? _No, stop John, stop_. _Don't go there_.

"So... Um, I'm going to bed. Work tomorrow." John gestured towards the stairs, just to make his point clear. Sherlock didn't bother him with as much as a glance. "Want a little report on your diagnosis first?" He tried carefully.

"Yes please, I have been _hearing _your thoughts churning for the last two hours, so please, go ahead." He answered with his eyes still trained on the blood samples.

"Your diagnosis is nonexistent." _Yeah, great phrasing there , don't even think about sugar coating it or anything._

Sherlock did not say anything, he just stood silently and then sent all the Petri dishes to the floor, before he strode of to his room and locked the door. How was it possible that there was no diagnosis?

* * *

The tall detective sat down on his bed and scratched forehead. Then he stood up again and started pacing back and forth. How was it possible that he had got no diagnosis? With all those tests, they should've found something? Hurting like that must've made one of those god damn incompetent doctors think of _something, anything._ There had been nothing in the blood samples, not one thing Sherlock found odd or even different from any other, normal person. And on top of it all, his thigh had been burning all since the last night at the hospital, and it had only gotten more confident in its decision to give him hell over the last forty minutes or so. He sat down again and started rubbing it fiercely, willing the pain to go away. In the end, he arrived to the conclusion that he should try and sleep it off. Just turn the whole system off and on again to see if that would help. He shuddered out a long breath before he closed his eyes, but sleep never came. As the clock passed twelve thirty, his door creaked open, and Sherlock's body became nothing but a ball of rigid muscles.

"Sherlock?" A hushed voice said carefully. _John._ "You awake?"

"No 'm not, just sleep talking." Sherlock noticed with horror how slurred his voice sounded.

"A-are you still hurting?" The man in the bed drew a sharp breath, and then nodded silently. "Will you let me see?" John closed his eyes and exhaled heavily, wondering what on earth he was doing, but when Sherlock turned over, he decided it was the right thing.

"Right thigh." John nodded sharply and threw the duvet away from Sherlock's legs.

There was nothing there. As normal, there was only the pain, and nothing else. John groaned and scratched his head while he laid the duvet back. He comprehended less and less of this huge chaos that was wrecking havoc in Sherlock's body.

"Lestrade called. Scotland Yard got a telephone from hospital, calling in on a missing Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You know who he is? You know, since you've spent a _whole day_ atthe same hospital he was in. Thought you might have observed him at some point or something..." John smiled at Sherlock's 'not-funny' glare. "I had to explain the whole thing to him you know. And just after I hung up on him, the staff at the hospital called me and said they really wanted you to come in again. They need to do some more tests, try and figure out what all of this is. Do you want to talk about it? That's why I'm really here."

"I didn't find anything... in the blood samples. _Nothing _that could even give a little indication as to what can possibly be wrong with me. I am so tired and sick of this, I can't think or work with that pain interrupting me without as much as a little forewarning. The only thing on my mind is when the next blow will come." He spat back. Sherlock sunk hopelessly into his pillow and gripped his leg tightly through the duvet, frowning in pain.

That was when the doorbell rang, and everything was going to change in a couple of minutes. John's eyes turned from the door to Sherlock's icy stare. He had perked up and seemingly forgotten about the pain for the moment. "_Client." _They both thought, and John went for the door, muttering something about ungodly hours under his breath. While his friend was downstairs, Sherlock took the opportunity to stumble his way into the living room. It didn't hurt much more to stand or walk than it did to lie down, it was just exhausting and irritating with the constant pain. He practically fell into his chair, but tried to compose himself and look professional to whoever was going to come in that door. And that was the one and only John Watson, no one else. He was so obsessed with a box he had in his hands, so that Sherlock had to whistle at him to make him stop in the living room.

"What are you-"

"What is that box?" Sherlock interrupted at once, he could not be bothered by John's  
concern at the moment.

A box containing something unknown, arriving at the door in the middle of the night, that was definitely _something._ Because John was itching about opening the cube of cardboard himself, he let the questions about Sherlock's health lie for the moment. Maybe this was just what the detective needed. A little something to take his mind of all that was happening

"Do you think it's something dangerous?" Sherlock shook his head and groped for the box.

He sat with the thing in his lap for a few minutes, probably deducing all he could about where it came from and who had sent it. When he started muttering some of it out loud, John was certain that was just what he did. At some point he was probably happy about what he had found out, or he just couldn't get a grip of it at all, because his face looked mildly puzzled. Anyway, he started to rip away the tape that held the box together and viscously tore it apart. All the excitement was gone in a moment, when he saw the little, blue, stuffed doll fall out of it. It had buttons for eyes and its mouth was stitched, so was the edges of it, making it look cheap and put together by a person who was not so good at making dolls. John noted the needle stuck in its leg, and that was when he understood what it was.

"It's a bloody voodoo doll!" he exclaimed, taking it away from Sherlock's hands. "You're supposed to wish for something, and then put a needle in it, and then each needle has one specific colour which comes with a theme. Green could be money for example." John remembered learning that from a crazy girlfriend he had at uni, and pulled forth a white pin from the desk. "What they do in movies is apparently wrong, transferring pain to those the doll was made for and all that, you know." And just as he said that, he stuck the needle into the stomach of the blue, stuffed, little creep in his hand.

Sherlock doubled over and fell down onto the floor on his knees, right at the same time. Too slowly, John turned around and let the doll fall out of his hands as he spun toward Sherlock. The man on the floor was clutching at his stomach tightly, moaning silently as he tried to maintain a calm breathing pattern. He leaned forward and let his head come to rest at John's chest, who had also sat down on his knees by then. Two places at once was new, and not at all a welcome feeling. One of Sherlock's hands reached for the floor to support himself as he curled even more in on himself. What felt like years spent in hell, turned out to be nothing more than almost an hour in the end. With pain trespassing miles over his comfort zone as a constant stab, an hour was not just _nothing_, it was the whole world and just cold, empty blackness all at once. Sherlock wished he had a switch, and so did John, but Sherlock realized that was just what he had, long before John could even comprehend what was happening. John had eventually made him lay on the carpet in front of the warm fire, hoping for it to help, if only marginally, but now, Sherlock shot upright. He gestured to John for something on the floor behind himself, not being bothered enough to open his mouth which was not corresponding with his brain at that moment. John had sat down in his own chair, opposite of where Sherlock had collapsed, and now he looked past his friend for the first time in quite a few minutes. The only thing that caught John's eye was the doll, and what on earth was that supposed to mean?

"It's-" Sherlock seemed to roll the words in the back of his throat, not managing to really get them out there. "Voodoo." He finally pressed out between his lips.

When John only stared at him, dumbstruck, he at least still had guts enough in him to roll his eyes. He started to crawl towards it, but John was faster and picked it up before he managed to hurt himself further. The action earned him a petulant whine from Sherlock.

"Pull out... the..." Sherlock gave up and fell back down on the carpet, it was a silly idea anyway.

What on earth had he been thinking? Of course it would not work, the pain must have got to his head, making him desperate for any kind of solution. John didn't hesitate with his friend's request after all, pulling out both of the needles stuck in the blue, ragged doll. The relieved sigh that followed made the two men lock eyes, both were wide and unbelieving. Sherlock snatched the thing out of John's strong hands, leaving him with no other option but to let him have it. He then took one of the needles, which John had now dropped onto the carpet, and stuck it into the head of the doll. At the same time, one of his own hands flew to Sherlock's own head.

* * *

"I have got no idea what to do with this... this... bloody _toy _from the devil." John paced restlessly back and forth in front of Sherlock who had the doll in his lap. "Burn it, throw it, bury it? If someone finds it, it could be really dangerous, and destroying it could be painful for you..." He sighed hopelessly and stole a quick glance at his flatmate who seemed to ponder about the same thing, fixing the doll with a piercing glare. "I know!" he said and stopped the pacing. Sherlock perked up and watched him with raised eyebrows. "I could keep it for times when you don't listen."

"That would be very much like you, yes." Sherlock mumbled in retort and went back to staring at the doll.

"I-I... I said I was sorry, Sherlock! What more do you want me to do? It was a bad moment... all rational thought left me and I-"

"John, it was meant as a joke." Sherlock offered, and smiled at the frenzied man. "Actually... I couldn't care less about it. I need to know how it works. If we get to know how it works, we could also destroy it." He answered in an icy voice.

"What do you mean?"

"There must be something in it. Some sort of device which passes on pain, some new technology supposed to be used on criminals perhaps. We should ask Lestrade. " He finished as he rose up from his chair dramatically, a stunned John looking after him. "What? You didn't really think it was... 'magic' doing all this?" The soldier blushed and looked down at his toes.

"'Course not..." he mumbled in a low voice.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn't suppress the little smile that crept upon his lips. He went for his bedroom, going to pick up his phone and call the D.I. It didn't take more than one ring before someone answered and a litany of questions rolled out of the phone. Sherlock did not even bother to listen, interrupting poor Greg Lestrade in the middle of his scolding. The line went silent when Sherlock had asked his question, and then the man on the other end blew out in a full, patronizing laugh. Apparently, there was no such device existing, and even if there was, it sounded illegal if not inhuman. '_Tell me about it_' Sherlock thought. He hung up before Lestrade had finished his speaking, or laughing, and threw the phone back down on his bedside table. He was just going to lie down for one minute and think about everything that had happened over the last week, but it didn't take long before blissful sleep surrounded him.

* * *

Waking up the next day was more than just okay. No more agony, no more irritating throbbing and best of all, Sherlock felt ready to anything, like he normally did. He yawned as he shuffled out into the living room, still in the clothes he had worn the night before. A quick glance at his watch showed him that it was no more than six thirty AM, and sure enough, John bustling out of the bathroom confirmed that.

"Morning." They said in unison and smiled at each other.

Sherlock seemed... almost happy, or content, John thought to himself. It was good, he was glad to have him back to his normal self. He didn't want for anything to happen to the detective in a good time now, he had got his fair share. It would be good to finish the case now, and try to forget about the absurd week they had just had. Yes, that would be the best now, John decided. As he stood in the kitchen, making himself breakfast and getting ready to go to work, he caught a glimpse of a certain lanky man pushing himself off the floor and scanning the room with his eyes for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

"Have you seen _the thing_? I am certain I laid it right here, in my chair, last night." A questioning, almost worried glance was fixed at John.

"I haven't touched it." He said and threw his arms up in defence.

"Well then... someone has taken it."


End file.
